My muse was dead. It turns out she was rotting too. - Stories from one woman's World of Warcraft characters

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Site Write Entry #10: Ahn'Qiraj

Prompt: May 17, 2012 - On your character's second adventure, you are transported to the sands (also known as the wastelands) of Silithus. From there, you are brought to the gates of the fallen kingdom and forced to make it all the way to the room where the Old God once thrived. What is it like in there after all this time? Does it feel eerie or just plain nothing? What does your character do while spending time in this room?

There's Girls, There's Tentacles - We Know Where This is Going

. . . . . This was the last blessed time she was letting Badge convince her to do anything involving deserts. Ever. Again.. . . . . "It'll be easy," he said. "Just nip in there, nick me a few pieces o' obsidian glass, an' Professor MacGillycuddy's Dark Scryin' Mirrors is in business!" Ilva had nodded her empty blonde head, set her transporter to Gadgetzan, and promised him she'd be back in a day - two if the ships were behind.. . . . . But no. Noooo. Here she was, ankle deep in a sand that felt more like walking through nettles, trying to find her way down to the ritual room the Tanari guide had told her was lined with obsidian tiles after having gotten off course. She blamed the dog. In her defense, however, it had been a very large, mostly person-shaped, black dog which really seemed intent on keeping her out of the courtyard she'd been trying to cross.. . . . . Unfortunately, that meant she was now lost. Whatever had gone on here, it was long over with now. A few broken weapons stuck out of the sand, some quickly covered up by the next gust of scouring wind. The landmarks were few and far between, and the guide didn't mention anything about giant person-shaped dogs.. . . . . Trudging aimlessly, she began to consider firing up her transporter again. But the last time through, she endured an hour-long jag as a gnome with a lisp. It was bad enough being short for a huma- worgen. A worgen. Eventually, she'd change the way she thought of herself.... . . . . There was a quiet swishy whisper, a gentle sucking sound, and woosh! she was falling through a hole in the ceiling of a very large room, accompanied by a great deal of shifting sand. Luckily, Ilva had quite a lot of experience in tumbling and acrobatics so she landed neatly on the cushiony pile of sand under the hole. All around her gleamed black glassy walls. "Victory!" she cried, leaping off the pile of sand.. . . . . Squish, came the response. "Squi-...? OH LIGHT!" The sand flew every which way as Ilva dove back into it, scrambling to get away from the rotting, foul, disgusting, slimy, reprehensible thing she'd stepped on. It looked like a draenei's face tendril, but as she followed it back with her gaze, she realized it led to a giant, rotting...eyeball?. . . . . "Badge, you are so on your own f'r this'un!" Trying hard not to inhale the sharp sand she'd surrounded herself with, Ilva yanked her transporter out of her hip satchel and smacked the big red button - hard.

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. . . . . Geordi Lapforge grinned lasciviously as a tall, gorgeous, stacked draenei lady stepped out of the teleporter and bent over to cough up sand. "Wot th'-...? BAAAAADGGGE! I want hazard pay!" She shook a blue fist at the sky and stalked off for the tavern, tail swaying.